


And so the Mountain Bends

by antimonyandthyme



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, University, teammates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:06:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21703438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antimonyandthyme/pseuds/antimonyandthyme
Summary: Their coach suspends him for the next match. Oikawa dips his head, appropriately contrite. He’d expected worse, and in the grand scheme of things, he is willing to forgo one game. His captain chews him out, and that hurts slightly more, because he mentions self-restraint and stability—all things Oikawa hadn’t known he would relinquish on the court until today.He’d known however: Ushijima will always be his Achilles’ heel.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 30
Kudos: 178





	And so the Mountain Bends

Oikwa sees it happening out of the corner of his eye, but he’s not close enough to stop it. The toss is made from an awful angle to begin with, but he manages to get it within range, and all Ushijima needs to do is lunge to his right to smack it back into the other court. But he has to overextend his arm to meet the ball, and the spike doesn’t have the usual force behind it. The opposition’s libero pulls off a receive, albeit with a haphazard dive to the ground. 

Ushijima lends awkwardly on his right leg— _his non-dominant leg_ , Oikawa instantly catalogues, _not grounded, unbalanced, he can’t get out of the way on time, can’t even flinch, fuck_ —and doesn’t react fast enough as a return travelling seemingly at eighty miles an hour flies into his face. 

It’s too precise to be anything but a properly aimed hit. The resounding _thwack_ is disproportionately loud amidst the commotion of the spectators, the court, and Ushijima’s surprised, pained gasp is oddly discernable. Ushijima stumbles back, disoriented, clutching his nose. Blood peeks out from his fingers. He looks a little lost, as if he can’t process what just happened. The mean, petty part of him that Oikawa tries to keep suppressed rears its head up, goes, _would you look at that, Goliath brought low by a single blow_ — 

But the rest of him, the better part of him, Oikawa hopes, the part that watches Ushijima a little too closely for him to want to admit, coils toward the other team’s spiker like a fist. 

“How dare you,” he spits out. He strides forward, under the net, gets up in the boy’s space. Hates the way his face looks, smug and unconcerned. Oikawa’s livid. “You think I didn’t see that? You did that on purpose, you motherfucking piece of shi—”

Oikawa registers his teammates’ frantic hands around his shoulders, pulling him away. He shakes them off. Sees the other team doing the exact same thing, holding their spiker back, who’s offering platitudes Oikawa can’t make out. All he hears is his heart pounding in his ears, the beat agitated and dangerous. This won’t look good, he knows. Not for the University’s image, not for his team’s, and most definitely not for his. But he’s not done, not by a long shot. The referee’s blowing his whistle, issuing a verbal warning through their captains, any moment now it’ll bypass the yellow and go straight to the red card. 

“Oikawa.” Someone grasps his hand, grip gentle but unwavering. He whirls around, still seething, but it’s Ushijima. Someone’s given him a wad of tissues, which he’s pressing unceremoniously against his nose. Red is already spotting the white. The idiot’s blinking rapidly, possibly against the pain, or the tears that are threatening to slip out against his control, but his gaze is fixed steadily on Oikawa. Ushijima pays the other spiker no mind. “Oikawa,” he tries again, a thread of strain in his voice. 

“What,” he snaps.

“I need you here,” Ushijima simply says. 

Oikawa stills. His entire body tunes in towards Ushijima, like a compass needle to North. It’s funny how pissed his eighteen-year-old self would’ve been to see him like this, how pliant and susceptible he is to Ushijima’s direction. But Oikawa’s not laughing now. 

He turns back towards the spiker. His voice dips low, but it carries easily, message clear. “If you touch my ace again, I’ll _crush_ you.”

He does get a yellow, but he gets to stay on court. He sends toss after toss into perfect empty spaces, watches the ball get sucked into Ushijima’s gravitational sphere, his utter and immense presence undeniable even with the massive bruise now adorning his face. Watches Ushijima devastate the rest of the game, and only then, does his heart beat slow. Oikawa meets the other spiker’s eyes at the end of the match, steel and ice in his regard, watches as the boy looks away.

 _Crushed you anyway_.

\--

Their coach suspends him for the next match. Oikawa dips his head, appropriately contrite. He’d expected worse, and in the grand scheme of things, he is willing to forgo one game. His captain chews him out, and that hurts slightly more, because he mentions self-restraint and stability—all things Oikawa hadn’t known he would relinquish on the court until today. 

He’d known however: Ushijima will always be his Achilles’ heel. 

He takes extra long in the showers, after telling his vice-captain the bus needn’t wait for him. Scrubs at his body until his skin feels tender and raw. Breathes furiously against this feeling of helplessness, because after all this time, Ushijima still has the ability to fracture his façade of calm. Even if it was in a manner unexpected. For instead of against. Protective instead of destructive. 

He steps out, head dizzy with all the steam and contradictions. Finds that he’s not alone, that his object of intense vexation is sitting at the locker benches. There’s a divot between Ushijima’s brows, and he’s staring hard into nothing at all. He still looks a little lost.

“You’ve missed the bus,” Oikawa offers, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

Ushijima shifts his attention to him. “So have you.”

Oikawa makes his way slowly to the bench and settles a cautious distance away from Ushijima. He failed to complete his cool down stretches earlier, and his muscles are beginning to twinge. Ushijima must know, somehow, because his fingers find Oikawa’s bad knee, and he kneads down, turning the throb to a pleasant ache.

And strangely, that ends up being the most surprising thing of the entire evening. The pressure of Ushijima’s hand on him, and Oikawa allowing it. 

“You shouldn’t have lost your temper.”

Oikawa’s not in the mood for a lecture, and he contemplates snarling back so, but then Ushijima would remove his hand, and he doesn’t want that either. He settles for a shrug. “You shouldn’t have got hit.”

Ushijima nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

They fall silent for a length of time. Ushijima’s hand never leaves him. Oikawa sits still, waiting, for what he’s not sure. Ushijima seems to be waiting as well. So Oikawa contents himself with tracking his eyes across the hand on his knee, the veins and lines running amok. He knows the strength in them. Thinks, _these hands can hold me up._ Follows the hand up the arm, up the shoulder, round the cut of his jaw, up to Ushijima’s face. The bruise has now blossomed out, purpling heavily around his left eye.

“I’m alright.”

Oikawa squints at him in disbelief. “If you say so.” He knows it’ll hurt like a son-of-a-bitch tomorrow. 

But Ushijima quirks a small smile. “You think I’ve never been injured in a game before.”

Oikawa huffs. It’s a fair accusation. Ushijima has always been marble in his head, an immoveable and unflappable mountain. Perhaps that prompted his reaction today, because Goliath has never been laid low, even in matches they end up losing. He’s always held his ground. To see him stumble today was disconcerting. Perhaps that’s why he lost control. 

But lying to himself isn’t as fun as it once was. Oikawa’s older now, wearier. And this thing between them has to come to a head. The _real_ reason— 

“You called me your ace,” Ushijima says quietly. “Yours.”

“You are,” Oikawa confirms, and finds there is no shame in the admission. “You are, and they’re not allowed to touch you.”

Ushijima’s hand falters on his knee, touch turning tentative. “Then who,” he asks hoarsely. He looks helplessly at Oikawa, as if the answer will be the frequency that shatters the wine glass. Oikawa knows he must be careful with his next words, as careful and deliberate as he is with each toss. “Who is allowed?” 

“Your setter,” Oikawa says finally, and feels Ushijima tremble all over. 

“Tooru,” he says brokenly, a plea, and Oikawa obliges. He leans in, and Ushijima’s lips part willingly under his. They kiss, folding into each other, learning each other’s boundaries and working to erase them all, Ushijima’s hand tight again around his knee as if it were a lifeline. 

“I would have taken it all,” Ushijima murmurs, devotion raw in his eyes. His skin welcomes Oikawa’s touch. “All the hits just to hear you say that.”

“Well you don’t have to,” Oikawa says, sharper than he intended, a command, because the thought makes his blood boil. He kisses Ushijima again though, to soften the sting, is gentler with him than he’s ever been with anything else. He smooths a thumb across a swollen cheek, frowning when a wince escapes Ushijima.

“Alright,” Ushijima says. He’s patient as Oikawa examines his face, fingers prodding lightly at the bruise. “I won’t let it happen again.”

“Idiot,” Oikawa says, affection rough in his voice, because that’s the kind of guy Ushijima is, someone who probably cries at the end of _Schindler’s List_ and helps old ladies cross the road and reads to his stupid plants and makes assurances for things that are completely out of his control. Makes declarations of love as annoying as that. 

Ushijima leans into him. “Yeah.”

“You’ll have to work on your movement if you want to make such promises. You over-rotate, when you land on your right. It throws you off-balance.”

Ushijima huffs a laugh into his shoulder. “Of course.” He looks up at Oikawa again, something tremulous and reverent in his gaze. “Will you help me?”

“Don’t be daft, Ushiwaka-chan,” he scolds, but the grin stretched on his face belies his tone. He intertwines Ushijima’s hand with his own, savours the callouses matching his. Everything he’s sure of is held between his fingers. “I’m your setter, aren’t I?”

**Author's Note:**

> Send help all I want is for these two to play on the same team is that too much to ask oh dear god I've fallen into this black hole and I'm staying here.


End file.
